


Horns

by PhantasmaDormi



Series: Mianite [22]
Category: Mianite - Fandom, Mianite Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Dismemberment, Gen, Graphic Body Horror, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Season 2, Realm of Mianite, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, The Realm of Mianite - Freeform, Tom as Mecha!Dianite, Tom not happy about being Mecha!Dianite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantasmaDormi/pseuds/PhantasmaDormi
Summary: Becoming a god comes with a lot of changes.That doesn't mean he's happy about it.
Series: Mianite [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678990
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Horns

It always happened when he let himself relax too much. He’d be enjoying the moment, having a good laugh, just feeling free now that there wasn’t a big something to worry about. Always when he felt good, when he felt like things weren’t collapsing around him.

Then there would the tale-tell itch in his head. The discomfort in his mouth. A push in his clothes. The feeling for growing, unfurling.

The cracking of bone jutting from his skull, moving out in stuttered movements. A push with a crack, pause, another push of pain, pause, another. Each symbolized a curve, the rough formation of a wave, a wiggle back in forth of bone. It felt like someone was trying to rip it from his body, as though someone were gleefully pulling at an arm, listening to the person scream and cry, bone splintering and disconnecting with each tug, a splatter of blood hitting your cheek-

Horns, blood red at the tips, falling into a gradient of bone white at the base. That was his blood smeared along the growth. His head throbbed, and if he looked at the horns, eyes drifting along their length, he could almost see the blood pulse in time with the pain. Thump, pain, thump, pain.

But this growth wasn’t alone. More bone- always more bone- pushed from his gums. Teeth, fangs, sharp like daggers and meant to kill. They came in the sort of way you pushed a syringe into flesh: a smooth glide accompanied with a stiff discomfort. Just on the edge of painful, but only really for that first prick.

It was when they dug into the rest of his mouth. They grew from both the bottom and the top set of canines, crowding his mouth. They dug into his gums, tore into the inside of his mouth, and tore up his mouth. They’d grow crooked more often than not. Not sideways, but out, like they were trying to escape the confines of his jaws.

They made it awkward and difficult to close his mouth, even if he ignored how the top pair couldn’t fit back into his mouth at all. The bottom he could squeeze in if he held his jaw open and delicately put his lips together- making it look like an idiot put a big chunk of food in his mouth that he couldn’t chew.

There was the complimentary tail, of course. It was more of a prick than anything painful. Uncomfortable as hell, though. Like having your veins pulled out, a long tube that felt slimy and squishy. Not that he knew what that was like, to pull out someone’s veins, or what the rubbery feeling they have from how they bounce in your fingers whenever you pinch them. Like how you’d bounce off slime.

But no, the only part that hurt was the sting of the tip pushing out and the way the spade shaped end forced its way through a far too small hole made just above his tail bone.

The real pain were the wings that always tried to break free from his suit jacket. It was by far the longest transition, the most jerky and unorthodox way of growing wings.

It started not unlike how the tail came out: there would be a prick as the tips began to push past skin. Then a shove, forcing flesh to split open. With a crack, a length of bone would jut out, ripping into his shirt, then his suit jacket. It would pause, wet and gleaming, then just out again. Length of bone after length of bone, the wings would start to form in halting motions, stained red from drying blood.

There would be no feathers, or skin, or leather-y covering until the bone had found its full way out. This would go on for minutes, agony ripping through his back as his muscles squeezed and contracted in response. His body wasn’t made for this.

And when wings of bone were out fully in the daylight, made of segments and points, his divine healing factor would kick in. Skin would stitch its way up the stained bone, growing with slick, slimy sounds. Underneath the skin a thin layer of flesh and blood would work up, nerve endings running along his new appendages.

They would ache, then. If he turned to look at them he would see dark, reddish leathery skin. Like a bat’s wing.

After that he would barely notice the tingle of his fingernails growing into claws. They would turn dark as well, almost black.

Then there would be a moment of euphoria, of pure, pulsing power in his veins. He felt like a god. No, he was a god. Fire and strength and control buzzing at his fingertips.

But then it’d crash. Reality would body check him, steal the breath from his lungs. He wasn’t supposed to be a god. Wasn’t supposed to be his own god.

He was a traitor, hands made filthy and red. There was death to his name and power in his veins and something so wrong about both of those facts. His heart anchored him, drug him down with guilt, with fear, with regret.

What would Dianite think, seeing him now?

 _Which Dianite,_ his mind would whisper, _The one you killed or the one you brought back to life?_

Both. Neither. The one that mattered to him was dead. That should have been his only solace in his pain- no matter what happened his god would never be able to judge him again. But he could judge himself. He could feel a distant feeling of shame when looking at the Other Dianite. The one who wasn’t killed by his follower, whose champion was a loyal, loving presence by his side. Who had a whole world to come back to with people who trusted him, even those who belonged to other gods.

What did Tom have, as a forsaken, forgotten god?

Wasn’t he meant to replace Dianite, the old Dianite, the dead Dianite? Shouldn’t he have taken up the mantle, reinstated his brand of chaos and scheming, caused more trouble? What was he doing here, wallowing away in his own self pity and shame?

So he’d reach up to his horns.

_False god_

He’d clench tight, feeling the ridges underneath his palms.

_Weak_

With a crack and a cry, he’d wrench the horns from his head. They’d dissolve into fire in his hands but the pain wouldn’t touch him there. Instead, it radiated from his head. The rest of the horns would follow, dissolving, melting into his scalp.

The fangs would follow in a similar fashion. They were easy enough to snap off, but they didn’t leave as smoothly. There would be a tingle in his gums as his teeth- his actual teeth- would try to remember what they looked like, how they were supposed to function.

_Pathetic_

His tail would be hard, but all he had to do was pull, pull, pull. It’d hurt. By then it had seamlessly connected to his spine and it would be a miracle if he didn’t pull his own spine out in his desperation to remove the tail. There would be a long ripping sound, muscles getting torn and bone groaning under the stress.

Tears pricked at his eyes, hot and unnaturally bright, and the tail would jerk free leaving a hole behind. It wouldn’t last for long, but it’d bleed steadily and leave a stain against his dress shirt.

Then his wings. He’d hesitate. They were painful enough on entry, stitched with flesh and bone and nerves and blood. Tearing them off was worse. Blinding and white hot and wretched.

So he’d take his time, flex them out, stretch them. He’d pick off his claws- which were hardened but otherwise not painful to remove. His heart would stutter at the thought of ripping them out.

But he couldn’t just leave them there.

_You could_

So he’d do it one at a time. Not because it’d hurt less, but because it was easier. They were resilient, built to take stress and strain. But so was he. He’d tug, then yank on a wing, use all the godly force he had left in him.

The first one was always easier. Despite the tear of muscle and snapping of bone, he could get it off. The skin would rip away like fabric, like his suit jacket, followed by a burst of blood and a stretch of muscle.

Then he’d cut a muscle. Pain would shoot down his spine, scream at his head. Nerves would start to fray and the bones would creak and groan. Then they’d break, tear into the rest of his muscles, take apart his wings from the inside.

He’d forget to breathe.

The worst part would be if he was too slow. His body would try to heal as fast as it could, pulling skin back together and repairing bone. That wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to be rid of all the shit that reminded him that he killed Dianite. Not to be stuck with it.

So he had to work fast, faster. Break bone from bone, tear muscle from muscle. It was agony, it was fire running along his skin, a cold sweat on his brow.

And then one wing would be gone.

Followed by pure, shuddering anguish. He’d dry heave, gasping for air. The wing itself would dissolve slowly beside him, still try to heal itself as the last of life bled from it. His back would give out, forcing him to slump forward onto his knees.

And he’d sit there, one-winged, chest heaving for air. If anyone saw him now, they’d think he was useless. Can’t even remove wings.

By pure instinct, his hands would resist moving to tear off the next. But he had to. It must go, he must be rid of it. So he’d grip the remaining one, hands shaking. He’d be slower, this time, which was worse. But his mind fought him, screamed at him to let go, to stop.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

It hurt more the second time, but less. He was already so far deep in pain that it just… didn’t faze him. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he barely noticed them over the snapping of bone, the ripping of muscle, the-

The same old thing, over and over. He’d done this before. Ripping half his back off and laid on the floor to let it heal over. Had to cut cloth from his wounds before it got trapped under his skin.

With a sob, the last wing dropped to the floor. And with it, so did he. He watched it dissolve in front of his eyes with a sort of detached apathy. It was pretty, almost. Like a fire struggling to light, to stay alive. Flickering about before being snuffed out.

Maybe that was him. A fire trying to survive until he, too, was snuffed out.


End file.
